Fans of the Impossible Life (11 page)

“I need to use the bathroom,” I said, and headed to the stairs by the front door.

“You know where it is,” Peter said.

“Me too,” Sebby said, getting up and following me up the stairs.

On the second floor the bathroom was on the left and Peter's bedroom was on the right, the door open to an unmade bed and a dresser with clothes spilling out of it.

“He's messy, huh?” Sebby said, going into the room.

“I guess when you live alone it doesn't matter,” I said.

Sebby sat down on the bed, making himself comfortable.

“What do we think about Peter? No girlfriend? No boyfriend?”

“I know he had a serious girlfriend in college,” I said. “They went backpacking around Europe together the year after they graduated. She didn't want to come home and he did. So they broke up.”

Sebby was leaning back on the bed, studying the room, the messy sheets twisted around him. My mind suddenly formed a picture of the two of us in that bed, imagining that we had been the ones to tumble those sheets into a knot.

“You know a lot about him, huh?” Sebby said.

“I guess so. Yeah.”

“And you've been here before?”

“Uh-huh. Last spring. This thing happened at school—”

“Your locker,” Sebby said.

“You heard about it?”

He nodded. “Word gets around.”

I was leaning in the doorway watching him, not quite willing to step over the threshold.

“I thought you had to pee,” he said.

I shook my head. “Not really. Just, uh . . .”

“Looking for some alone time?”

“Sort of.”

“Some alone time in Peter's bedroom? Yeah, I get it.” He smiled, teasing.

I was blushing now.

“No. Not like that.”

“Come here,” he said.

“I don't think we should be in here.”

“No, it's okay. I want to show you something.”

My heart jumped a little as I stepped toward him, as if preparing itself either to run or to stay and fight my own stupid ways of sabotaging every interaction, every attempt to live in a world that involved anything more than my own private visions. I sat down next to him on the bed.

He lifted up his shirt.

“See that?” he said.

A large red scar ran lengthwise along his torso.

“Yes,” I said. I resisted the urge to touch it.

He put his shirt down.

“That's two weeks in the hospital after these ape-men from my school basically kicked my stomach in.”

“Are you serious?”

“Oh yeah.”

“What happened?”

“Some assholes from the football team just didn't like the looks of me.”

“You knew them?”

“Barely.” He leaned back on his elbows. “And the real shame of it all is, I really do like football.”

“But you were okay?” I said. “I mean, you are okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah, sure. It was almost a year ago. You know.
Get over it, right? What's the other option?”

“I don't know,” I said.

We were quiet for a minute. My hand was near his on the bed.

“I've never gotten hit by someone,” I said. “I can't imagine it.”

“It sucks. And I can throw a punch, you know? But this was two against one. I didn't stand a chance.”

“Two weeks in the hospital?”

“Um-hm. Two surgeries. It shouldn't have been such a big deal, but there were complications with the first one. My doctor dropped his cigarette in my abdomen or something.”

“What happened to those guys? Did they get in trouble?”

“I think they got suspended for a little while. I don't know. Things got complicated after that. They were kind of the last thing on my mind.”

“Was your foster mom upset?”

He leaned back on his elbows.

“You mean did she rush to my side like the loving parental figure she's supposed to be? No.”

“So who took care of you? After it happened?”

He pushed off his shoes and brought his feet up onto the bed.

“Mira,” he said. “Mira did.”

He took my hand then, like he had two nights before at the diner. I tried to hold still while he ran his finger along the lines of my palm, tracing some kind of secret message.

“Peter took care of me,” I said finally. “I guess. Last spring. That's why I was here.”

“I'm glad you had him,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”

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Looking around Peter's house, Mira felt a little bad for him that the school couldn't have provided something nicer.

“So do you like it here?” she asked him.

“It's all right,” he said. “Serves its purpose. And a lovely screaming newborn lives in the other half of the house, so that's fun.”

“Yeah, I didn't think that giant minivan in the driveway was yours.”

“No, I leave my car at school. I walk there every day anyway.”

Mira got up from the couch and went over to the fridge, examined its contents.

“Wow, you really do only have juice in here, don't you?”

“Yup,” Peter said.

“And beer.”

“And that is not for sharing with my underage students.”

Mira picked up the bottle of juice.

“What is this? Cran-Apple? Are you five years old?”

A car commercial was on, showing a red convertible zooming through impossible desert rock formations. Peter turned the TV off.

“I'm not sure I appreciate the level of judgment that has been brought into my normally peaceful home this evening.”

“Sorry.” Mira sat back down on the couch. “Cran-Apple is great.”

He smiled at her. The trademark Peter Smile. Mira felt herself blush, tried to recover.

“Do you really like the tie?” she asked.

“It's great,” Peter said. “You go to thrift stores a lot?”

She nodded. “It cheers me up. In a really good thrift store you feel like you're in a room with all of these stories, and it's up to you to go and find the stories that you want to bring home with you.” She stopped, suddenly feeling embarrassed. “That sounds silly, right?”

“I love it. A room full of stories.”

“And then when you wear the clothes, they help you tell a new story, but they're bringing that old part with them and with you and you're benefitting from that in a way that you can't even really understand.”

He smiled.

“That's a beautiful thought, Mira.”

She looked at the woven throw pillow on the couch next to her.

“It's why I hate those school uniforms so much,” she said.

“They're designed to not have a story,” he said.

“Exactly.”

“That's their whole purpose.”

“Right. That's exactly it.”

He nodded. “I get it.”

She pulled at a string on the pillow.

“Here,” he said. “Come see the backyard. I have a special ‘sit and stare at the place where I should put a garden but I have no patience for growing things' spot.”

She followed him out onto the back deck. It was dusk now. The yard was a mess of weeds.

“Wow,” Mira said. “That's pretty bad.”

“Try to imagine it.” Peter sat down in one of the rusted metal chairs. “Maybe a vegetable garden over there, and then some rosebushes, and a . . . what's it called? A trellis.”

“A trellis. Nice.”

“Maybe a little pond with some exotic Japanese goldfish.”

Mira sat down next to him. “Well, you're dreaming big, and that's what's important.”

They sat for a moment looking out over the yard.

“So you needed some cheering up today?” Peter said.

“What?”

“You said going to thrift stores cheers you up. Is that why you went today?”

“I guess.” She let a moment go by before saying, “Sometimes I have these weird spells. My mom calls them that. I
would never call them that. It makes me sound like some kind of delicate Southern lady.”

Peter laughed.

“But I have these moments where I just get overwhelmed,” she said. “And I feel kind of invisible. Like I don't exist. Or maybe I wish I didn't? Do you know what I mean?”

“Sure,” he said. “I think so.”

“When it's over it all feels so silly. Like, why couldn't I just relax? But when it's happening it feels like I won't ever be able to relax again.”

“You seemed upset at the dance,” Peter said.

“Yeah. That was because of my sister. She has this amazing way of making me feel terrible about myself.”

“Siblings can be good for that.”

“Sometimes I really think she's doing it on purpose. Like, she thinks she needs to break me down or something before I'll get better.”

“And what are you supposed to be getting better at?”

“Everything. I mean, Julie does everything perfectly. In high school she was captain of the girls' softball team, class president, ran the newspaper. And now she's at Harvard. Prelaw. She's basically my parents' dream come true.”

“And what does that make you?”

“Their nightmare.” Mira made a face.

Peter smiled. “I doubt that,” he said.

“Ever since Julie left for college it's felt like they've been slowly realizing that I am not exactly the daughter they would
have chosen for themselves.”

“You think your parents expect you to be like your sister?”

“I know that they do. They're both just like her. And they all believe that if someone isn't successful at something it means they just aren't trying hard enough.”

“And what do you believe?”

“I guess I believe that some people just aren't good at some things.”

“Maybe they're good at other things.”

She shrugged.

“And you think these spells have something to do with all of this?” Peter asked.

“I just know they started when Julie left for school and I started freshman year at Mountain View. And they kept getting worse. Until I just stopped going to school and then I didn't have to worry about what I was good or bad at anymore.”

“But now you're back in school.”

“Yup. Now I'm back.”

They looked out over the yard together. It was getting dark.

“Do you mind if I say something about what you're telling me?” Peter asked.

“Yeah. No. I don't mind.”

“Well, in my own life, when I've had emotions that seemed mysterious or unreasonable, it usually meant that I was hiding a part of myself. That there was something in me that I was afraid to show other people. And I needed to find a place of strength to look inside and figure out what was trying to get out, and then,
you know, embrace it. Be myself.”

“Hmm.”

“Yeah, sounds simple, right?”

“So what were you hiding?”

“Well, I was in a relationship with someone who had a lot of very grand ideas about life. She wanted to travel the world and live out of a suitcase and have these big adventures. And I wanted to believe that I could be like her, and keep up with her. But actually I was resenting her and resenting myself for not just admitting that I wasn't that person. I like to travel and see the world, but at the end I want to come home and have a quiet life where I wake up at the same time every day and go to the same place where I get to feel like I'm doing something worthwhile.”

“Teaching makes you feel like that?”

“I know it's not glamorous, but I'm not a glamorous guy. And if I can feel like I make a difference in my students' lives, that's the best feeling in the world.”

Mira smiled.

“What?” he said. “You're laughing at my unbridled optimism?”

“I just can't believe I somehow got tricked into a therapy session in Peter Sprenger's backyard.”

“It is true that these are my trick-people-into-therapy chairs. Did I not mention that?”

Mira laughed. “No, you didn't.”

“Well, we better go back inside then, before I provide any
more insights into mental health.”

They both stood up.

“Okay one more thing, Mister Armchair Therapist,” she said.

“Yes?”

“What's my thing that I'm hiding?”

“Unfortunately the whole point is that you have to figure it out for yourself.”

“Yeah, I had a feeling you were going to say that.”

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We left Peter's house together, Sebby and Mira walking me back to the bus stop where my bike was locked up. I knew that I would see Mira at school the next morning, but I found it difficult to leave them. That weekend had started something. Two and a half days spent together, time compressed and then expanding in the way that it does when something in your life is opening to accept a new phase. A new version of you is being born and you must be patient with it. I felt anything but patient. I thought that if I lost sight of the two of them I would never see them again. It would be as if none of it had ever happened.

I rode home on my bike away from them, feeling like a cord that connected us was stretching thinner the harder I pedaled. And that was it. As of that weekend, my heart was no longer my own.

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The day that you were released from the hospital last December you were driven home in an ambulance because Tilly wasn't able to come pick you up. The driver made you sit in the back alone, as if you were keeping watch over an invisible body. You felt like a ghost haunting yourself.

The ambulance pulled up in front of Tilly's house and the driver came around and opened the back door and you got out, holding a plastic bag with your few personal items in it. Then he closed up the ambulance doors again and drove off. You watched him go. There was something unnerving about a quiet ambulance.

You looked at the house. Small faces were peering out at you from the front window. Stephanie opened the door.

“Did you get in an accident?” she said.

“Something like that,” you said.

You walked to the door and she moved aside to let you in.

“Did you get hurt?” Stephanie asked.

“Yeah, I did,” you said. “Where's Tilly?”

“In the kitchen,” she said.

You went to the kitchen where Tilly was sitting at the table with Daniel and Connor. There were coloring books open on the table, crayons everywhere. The boys stared up at you.

“I'm home,” you said to Tilly's back.

She let a moment go by before she turned to look at you. When she did, her eyes didn't meet yours.

“Good,” she said.

She turned back to the coloring books. The boys kept staring.

You went to your room, where Jonathan was lying on his bed, reading
Sports Illustrated
. You closed the door behind you a little too hard, threw your stuff on your bed.

“Look who's back,” Jonathan said.

“Missed me?”

“No,” he said. “It was nice to have the room to myself.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Jonathan sat up on his bed.

“You talk to Tilly?” he asked.

“Doesn't seem like she has much to say to me.”

“Yeah, I think she's pretty pissed.”

You sat down on your bed.

“What does she have to be pissed about? I'm the one who just spent a month in the fucking hospital,” you said. “Thanks for visiting, by the way.”

“The school told her you were hooking up with some guy in the locker room or something. That's why you got beat up.”

“What?”

“She completely freaked out. Kept asking me if I knew anything about it. She spent a whole week saying I'm probably gay too.”

“Are you kidding me?”

Jonathan shook his head.

“No, man,” he said. “Look, you have to be more careful. Tilly's a religious woman. She's not going to be okay with that kind of thing in her house.”

“It wasn't in her house,” you said. “And I wasn't hooking up with anyone.”

“She said they put you in the loony bin for it, too. That's why you were gone so long.”

You put your head in your hands.

“Jesus,” you said.

“You're okay now though, right?” he asked.

“I'm still gay, if that's what you're asking.”

“No, I mean, did you really get hurt?”

“Yeah,” you said. “I did really get hurt.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

You got up and went to your dresser to find a new hoodie to put on. This one smelled like the hospital.

“Listen, you have to try to make it up to Tilly, though,” Jonathan said. “She's talking about having Family Services come
pick you up.”

“Great.”

You pulled out a gray hoodie and put it on, throwing the dirty one in the corner.

“And if you were really in the loony bin, they're probably gonna send you to that place in West Valley for the fucked-up kids.”

“What, a group home?”

“Yeah, I knew a guy who ended up there. He was schizo or some shit, so no one could deal with him, and they sent him to West Valley and he said it was fucking rough. Like kids off their rocker screaming all night. He used to sleep with a knife under his pillow so no one would fuck with him.”

“I'm not going to a group home,” you said.

“You're not gonna have much of a choice if Tilly doesn't want you here.”

You pulled your phone out of the bag of your stuff from the hospital and plugged it in to charge it. When it turned on there was a text from Mira:

Are you out yet? Tomorrow's my birthday. Sweet sixteen not so swee
t

“Tilly doesn't control my life,” you said, throwing the phone and charger back in the bag.

“Look, just put in some hours at church, make up a fake girlfriend, and you'll be fine. You just gotta ride it out for a couple more years, buddy.”

“I don't have to do anything,” you said. You picked up the
bag and went to the door. “Thanks, Jonathan, it's good to see you.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I'm glad you're okay, kid.”

You closed the door to your shared bedroom and went out, past Stephanie in the living room looking at you with her big eyes, past Daniel and Connor and Tilly with her passive-aggressive crayons in the kitchen, back out the front door into the cold December afternoon.

You took out your phone and wrote a quick text before the battery died again.

Let's run away.